


fear of the cold

by butterflycrown



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antagonist!Catelyn, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-16 00:10:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflycrown/pseuds/butterflycrown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He is going to be with his brother, to fight by his side and for his honour, and although he is not quite going home he knows that he will feel more at home than he has in far too long.</i> A canon-divergent AU in which Jon joins the war to help Robb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fear of the cold

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "Winter Winds" by Mumford & Sons.

They always celebrated Jon's birthday on the same day as Robb's, just because that was easier. Easier than their father naming a date, a time and a place that his betrayal occurred, looking his wife in the eyes and applying a timeframe to his deception; that would make it too real, allow her to think about how the weather was on that day, what she was doing while her husband welcomed his second son, or maybe his first.

(They always said Jon was the second son, because that was easier.)

As children, Jon and Robb grew up as twins; so close in age that their bond was as if they had actually shared a womb, or even a mother. When they were babies they were indistinguishable but for their contrasting eyes, their hair a dusting of brown that lightened and darkened with age. The boys were proud of their shared birthday, not ashamed— they shared everything else, why not this?

Catelyn remembers seeing the two children tottering around holding hands, experiencing everything together, with the warmth of the other’s body pressed against theirs. Their heads, one red and one black, were bent over something, smiling a secretive, shared smile.

She separated them and told them that boys didn’t hold hands, only swords. They didn’t understand, but from then on they become two individuals, no longer a single entity.

“Where’s Jon?” Ned asked the first time he saw them apart; Robb’s little face saddened, lips quivering.

“He wants to practice swords more,” Robb said. “I don’t.”

It was as if the two had never had conflicting wants before, had never experienced a thought that was not shared. It was only a minute before Jon came in as well, but the damage was done. Robb’s heart had frozen over, become almost immune to the warmth of Jon’s eyes. The same had not happened to Jon; in fact, the less time that he spent with Robb the more his childlike heart began to want him, to miss his constant presence. They were still brothers, still trained together and lived together and saw their baby sister for the first time together; they were just not twins anymore. Their worlds no longer moved together.

 

#

 

As the years passed, four major things happened to Jon: one, Arya was born and she became his best friend, like everything Robb had been and was not. The moment she came into his life Jon knew that they were kindred spirits. They both shirked from what was expected of them, unlike the rest of their siblings. Robb in particular had become something sacred, something that Jon was expected to look upon with admiration instead of love. He was set apart from the others, words whispered about him like _heir_ and _young wolf_ and _prince_.

Two, Jon became ashamed of his bastard status. He no longer took pride in the fact that his birthday was the same as Robb’s; on the contrary he dreaded the date, knowing that it was his birthday only because of his father’s cowardice. The day was like a symbol of his illegitimacy. In fact, the only ones who really celebrated it were Arya and Bran. Everybody else paid attention to Robb exclusively, showered his spot at the table with the gifts that were conspicuously missing from Jon’s. Well, everybody but Robb, who always saw the occasion as a chance to make everything up to Jon. It was the only time he allowed himself to be swayed by Jon’s eyes, the only time he allowed himself to spend as much time as possible with his oldest little brother, and when Robb laid a gift at Jon’s place it somehow meant more than the others.

Three, Jon fell in love with Robb. It was something that happened slowly, a desire that morphed from the need of a brother’s companionship to the need of a lover’s kiss; a fire so dangerous but so right that it felt like a part of Jon, melded with his body the way he wanted Robb to be. Jon didn’t want it, wanted to cast it aside, but whenever his eyes lit upon Robb from across the room he couldn’t tear them away, couldn’t stop himself from admiring these things: the glimmer of a shadow that his hair cast across his face, the broadness of his shoulders, the way his eyes carried an ever-present amusement, the ghost of a smile dancing on his red lips, the dusting of stubble on his jaw. There was something about Robb that drew Jon in like a moth to a flame.

Four, Jon joined the Night’s Watch. He said it was something he had wanted to do his whole life; it was not. He said he had always imagined himself as a Brother of the Night’s Watch; he had not. In truth, Jon didn’t think he had anything to live for, so why not die protecting the realm? (In truth, Jon was escaping his feelings and his family, hoping to put the same layer of ice around his heart that Robb did so long ago, and where better to do that than in the coldest place in the North?) He said goodbye to Robb with the same politeness as always ( _as brothers, nothing more_ ), but when they hugged he allowed his eyes to flutter shut, allowed himself to sink into the scent of his twin and stay wrapped in it even when they parted. He did not cry until far later, that night, when he wept tears that carried a weight heavier than stones; he knew that had been the last time he would see Robb.

 

#

 

Months later, after Jon has left Winterfell and after Robb has left Winterfell, Jon rides through the forest on a horse dark and swift as the night’s passing, his destination heavy in the pit of his gut. He is going to be with his brother, to fight by his side and for his honour, and although he is not quite going home he knows that he will feel more at home than he has in far too long. Home is where Robb is, after all, as stupid as that sounds. But there is more— there is his father, held captive by King Joffrey; there is Sansa, forced to act a part she can not play; there is Arya, unaccounted for and the source of many sleepless nights.

Mostly there is Robb, and Jon would risk his life for his brother, of course he would. What is honour when compared to a brother’s smile? Jon had veered away from the fire but now he is coming back, powerless to stop himself from burning. He had thought he could stay away, but a moth cannot stay away from a flame just as a magnet cannot stay away from iron and a man cannot deny his soul’s desire.

“What’re you doin’ this high north, m’Lord?” asks the barmaid at the first inn he finds, her breasts pressing against his arm as she puts down his drink. She doesn’t actually want to know, just wants him to notice her, to pay her something more than just a compliment.

Jon looks her up and down, like he’s interested, and shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says honestly, perhaps too honestly, and the barmaid smiles a crimson smile.

“Well, if you’ll be needing some company…” she says, and he smiles back, patronizingly.

“No thanks.”

He remembers the only time he had gone to a whorehouse, with Robb and Theon, the three lads out on an adventure together. It wasn’t Theon’s first time there, but it was for Robb and him. He had lasted about a minute before he bolted, too cowardly to do it, and found Robb hovering by the door awkwardly.

“Did you?” he asked, and Robb shook his head, not meeting his eyes.

“Me neither,” but they agreed to say that they had.

He knows why he didn’t do it — he didn’t want any more bastards in the world — but he still doesn’t know why Robb didn’t do it. Maybe it was for the same reasons as him, the same angry sympathy that made Robb beat up anybody who called Jon a bastard.

Jon doesn’t let himself think that it was because Robb feels for him what he feels for Robb; he is too sensible for that, too practical. He had entertained the idea only once and then cast it aside as foolish. He is not a dreamer, does not share the thread of optimism that runs through Sansa and Rickon and keeps them smiling.

“As you please, m’lord,” the barmaid simpers, and Jon turns his attention to his drink, the liquid still sloshing and frothing from the tap. Suddenly the fermented smell makes him sick, makes his insides churn and his heart ache for the scent of his brother; his twin.

 

#

 

A crashing in the underbrush alerted Jon to something and his fingers tightened around his sword like that would scare the intruder away. Nobody should have been there anyway, that far in the woods; it was Jon’s place to roam, wild and free as his blood.

That same blood dripped onto the leaves below him, rushing down a muddy river of red on his arm. At nine, it was his first real wound, and it was a pulsing, open gash that he had to steel himself to look at.

The crashing intensified until a disheveled Robb burst from the trees, cheeks flushed and red and mouth agape.

“I heard what happened,” he gasped, running a hand through his tousled hair. He glanced at Jon’s arm and looked away again. “Are you okay?”

Jon nodded wordlessly and lessened his grip on his sword. “I’m fine.”

“Well, that fucker Greyjoy won’t be when I’m through with him.” Robb’s eyes burnt with a thirst for revenge, and Jon had never seen him that angry before.

Jon let himself laugh, but shook his head. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Robb was already kneeling before him, pulling something out of his pocket. He didn’t respond, which meant that he would probably do something very stupid before the day was done. He finally showed Jon what he had: a needle and thread, no doubt taken from Sansa’s sewing basket.

“Let me help you,” he said, his eyes boring into Jon’s persuasively.

Jon shook his head immediately and Robb’s hand cupped his jaw, stopping him. “It’s either that or you’re just going to stay out here and not want to go back because you’re too ashamed of what Greyjoy did to you. It has to be sewn up now or it’ll get infected, and if I don’t do it then you have to promise that you’ll come with me and get Mother or Sansa to do it.”

It was one of the first times that Jon truly saw Robb as a leader, as the future Lord Stark of Winterfell, and though he doubted Robb’s talents as a surgeon he trusted his brother beyond anything, and so he nodded.

“Good,” said Robb, threading the needle with a steady hand. Jon watched as his eyebrows furrowed in focus and knew that he was safe (that he would always be safe, with Robb).

“How did you know where I was?” he asked; Robb smiled.

“I always know where you are.”

And that is why now, ten years later, Jon understands why he is not afraid of breaking his oath. Love gives him the strength to do it, the love of a brother and of a father. And although Robb _should_ kill him for desertion, Jon knows that he won’t do it simply because he trusts him, more than anything, more than the ground beneath his feet.

 

#

 

It is deep night when Robb ventures outside of his tent. Everybody else is asleep, as they should be; even the watchmen slumber at their posts. But he cannot sleep, his mind too busy with various imaginings of his father’s death.

(“Don’t think about it,” his mother had said, and he tries not to but it creeps up on him, takes over his thoughts like a virus.)

He looks out over the hills and tries desperately to think of something, _anything_ other than his father’s eyes.

Robb is not the kind of person who falls in love with a sudden, spontaneous swiftness; nor is he the kind of person who falls in love slowly but surely. Robb is the kind of person who has to weigh a situation fully and completely before he allows himself to fall in love, permits his heart to break down its wall one hesitant brick at a time. That is why it is such a surprise to him when he sees a figure on the horizon that he knows intimately, knows the slope of its shoulders and the curl of its hair, and his wall is smashed down with one stunning blow and he is left gasping, trembling, broken. Jon doesn’t see him and he is glad for that; nobody should see him like this, eyes flickering between besotted and insane, his lips quivering in the intimate discovery of another’s soul suddenly and inexplicably fused with his own.

He retreats into his tent as quickly as his shaking legs allow him too. This is not the Robb he has made himself into, the Robb he is used to— this Robb is wild, unrestrained, lost without his trademark steadiness.  Robb stares at the fire, bewildered, and feels it melting the chill within him, the ice in his eyes.

 _Jon_.

He allows himself to think about his brother, really think about him for the first time since he left, without suppressing his feelings; he is surprised by what surfaces in his mind. It is a flash of images in his mind, soundless, wordless, but powerful nonetheless.

Jon at age four, trying to kiss Robb’s scraped knee better; Jon at age six, eyes pleading with Robb to protect him from Theon’s taunts; Jon at age eleven, the first time he knocked Robb down as they sparred; Jon at age fifteen, standing outside the whorehouse with Robb, unsatisfied and awkward; Jon when he said goodbye, melting into Robb’s arms like he hadn’t in ages.

There are other memories, too, like when they stared into each other’s eyes for a moment too long in the middle of a wrestling match; when Jon walked in on Robb touching himself and they couldn’t look each other in the eye for a month; when Robb was distracted from his meals by gazing at Jon’s lips from across the table.

Robb realizes that he has not fallen in love spontaneously, or slowly, or tentatively. Robb has always been in love, and that is why he has never been aware of it— because he has never known anything different.

There is a rustle of fabric at the doorway and Robb does not turn around, has to steel himself first.

“Robb.”

He breathes in, feels the oxygen enter his lungs, enter his bloodstream, pump through his body; he exhales. He turns around, but nothing could have prepared him for the jolt to his heart when he sees his brother’s shining eyes, and he tries to say, “Jon,” but nothing comes out and he can only mouth the word noiselessly, and then Jon is striding forward and encircling Robb with arms stronger than he remembered, letting Robb sink into him and root his fingers in his curls and _inhale him_ , because this is what he has needed all along, this man and this moment and this feeling.

 

#

 

“You’re going to get killed,” Robb says once his heart can beat again, as he forces Jon to eat his weight in bread and meat and stew and everything that will return the colour to his cheeks, the colour that had been drained from him by the winds of the Wall.

“Stop watching me eat,” Jon retorts, completely avoiding the subject. Rob is gazing at his lips more blatantly than ever before, mesmerized by them. He can hardly find it in himself to look away; his eyes have become hungry and greedy in Jon’s absence.

“I’m glad you’re here,” mutters Robb into the silence, and Jon smiles a quick dart of a grin. “But it’s dangerous. You know the punishment for desertion.”

Jon shrugs, but Robb can see the trouble in his eyes. “I heard you’re the King of the North,” he says. “I figured you’d protect me.”

Robb’s heart sinks at that, because he has always wanted to protect his brother but has never quite managed, not when it really mattered, at least. If he can’t protect his brother from Catelyn, how is he expected to protect him from the Night’s Watch?

Something in Jon’s face notices Robb’s hesitation, and he retreats back into himself like he does when he’s around the other Starks.

“I could leave if you’d like,” he mumbles around a mouthful of bread, and Robb feels the vines of ice creeping up around his heart again, protecting him, and he shakes them off.

“No, it’s just— that’s not a real title anyway, King of the North. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Jon meets his eyes, swallows the last of his meal. “It does to me.”

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

Robb’s heart is beating through his entire body; he can feel it in his head and his chest, his stomach and the soles of his feet, a great shuddering thud that echoes around and around inside his skull, bouncing off of his doubts.

He is the first to look away, because he is the coward. He is the one who is even now refusing to tell Jon that their father has died, simply because he can’t imagine the look on his face. He is the one who could have defied his mother and taken Jon back into his heart; he is the one who did not. The more he pushed Jon away, the more his brother withdrew, instinctively, and he could feel it happening now, the distance between them growing like the expanding roots of a tree. He picks at a nail with apparent fascination, until Jon drops his spoon into his bowl, purposefully loud, and startles him out of his reverie.

“Stark,” Jon says, one word, and when did they start calling each other by their last names? It only makes the gap larger, makes their differences clearer. “Where can I sleep?”

Jon is here to stay, of course; Robb will tell his mother in the morning, but he can’t face her now.

“You can sleep with me.” His voice is strong, commanding, like a King, but inside he feels shaky. They haven’t slept together since they were ten years old and innocent, and if Robb was to be entirely honest with himself it is just a way to be close to Jon, to drink in his scent some more, to listen to his breathing and take comfort in his warmth. If his mother weren’t here Jon would sleep with him the entire time, but of course she will make arrangements otherwise. For once, Robb just wants to feel like a child again, safe with his brother.

 

#

 

Jon has been present for almost Robb’s entire life, but feels like he has missed it somehow. Since when was his brother a man, so confident in himself but so troubled? Jon can see the marks of sleepless nights on Robb’s brow and wants to smooth them away, to kiss them away and tame whatever demons dance behind his once-calm eyes. But Jon can only want from afar, can only try to contain the tingle in his fingertips that urges to reach out and _touch_.

(He shouldn’t be wasting his time on these feelings, not when he knows that they’ll never be returned. He should be appreciating every moment that he gets to spend with his _brother_ , not obsessing over him, wasting him. He is here for Robb, not for his own selfishness.)

“You okay?” asks Robb, in the voice of a King, and Jon nods, clenching his jaw to keep from talking. He knows that once he starts, he will never stop.

Jon shucks off his trousers and shirt and watches from across the bed as Robb does the same. He will allow himself this one moment of glory before clamping chains on his desires and locking them away in a dark, secret place. For now, they roam free like his eyes, skittering across Robb’s broad shoulders and rippling muscles.

Robb turns around and Jon ducks his head hurriedly, hides his guilt under the shadow of his curls. He feels his brother’s gaze still on him and cringes, knowing that even months spent training at the wall have not added bulk to his small frame. Not that he is small, but compared to Robb he has always thought of himself as so. Compared to Robb he is nothing.

“How hard are they working you at the Wall?” Robb asks after a too-long silence, his voice tight.

“Hard,” says Jon, a gust of Northern wind forcing him to burrow under the furs and tear his brother’s eyes away from his arms.

There is another pause and then Robb climbs into the bed beside him. Jon focuses intently on his hands, picking tiny tufts of hair out of the fur, and not on the body next to him. But still, an all-encompassing warmth surrounds him the instant Robb’s shoulder brushes his own, and Jon feels a part of his heart detach from the rest and reach out for Robb, craving more, pulled into his gravity. He squeezes his eyes shut and denies, denies the fibres of his soul in a way that he has never done before, denies his body’s instincts and his hands’ itch.

He breathes in; he exhales.

“How’s Bran?”

Robb shrugs, ducks his head slightly and gives Jon the opportunity to look at him again without looking him in the eyes, never the eyes.

“He can’t walk, but he’s fine otherwise.”

Jon hadn’t expected any better news, but the idea of Bran unable to walk, to ride and to run and to climb, all the things he loved to do, is something he can hardly bear to think about.

“He misses you,” Robb continues after a beat, “We all do. Well, I do at least, and Rickon asks for you every day.”

Jon knows who he excludes, he’s not stupid; Catelyn, of course Catelyn doesn’t miss him. Why should she miss the bastard son who took her husband away from her and then her son, closer to him than she could ever be? But she must know that Jon would do anything to save him. She can’t hate him completely, when she is the only thing like a mother he has ever known.

“What do you want me to do?” Jon asks, and the warmth surrounding them cools slightly as Jon steers the conversation away from family.

“In the war?” Robb turns, propping his head up on his elbow, and now Jon can look him in the eye again. “You want to fight, probably. But I— you must understand why I don’t want you to do that.”

“I want to fight _with_ you, Robb,” Jon insists. “I want to protect you.”

“And I you.”

Now Jon looks away, as mesmerizing as the green flecks of sadness in Robb’s eyes are, and flops onto his back. “Get some sleep, Stark, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Another pause, heavy as the gates of the Wall, and there is a rustle of sheets.

“Good night, Snow.”

 

#

 

Robb wakes up tangled around Jon like yarn, unable to tell who is on top of whom. He blinks his eyes open with the sun, keeping his breathing calm and his heartbeat normal. He tries not to think about the way Jon’s skin feels pressed against his own, or the way Jon’s breath ghosts across his shoulder, or the way Jon’s thumb is resting on his hipbone, possessively. But his hips cant towards Jon instinctively and his brother’s eyelashes flutter, on the cusp of awakening; Robb stills, holds his breath, and waits until Jon relaxes again. His limbs feel loose and heavy, sinking into the bed like time has slowed down, and in fact Robb wouldn’t mind if it did, wouldn’t mind if the rest of his life was spent watching Jon’s lips move in sleep. He wonders what Jon dreams about, whether it be the Wall or his mother or fighting or Robb himself.

Shutting his mind off, Robb sinks into a kind of sleep— he stays awake only to watch Jon, to bask in his contentedness.

 

#

 

Jon wakes up tangled around Robb, their very breaths intermingled.

“Morning, Jon,” he says, as Jon blinks his face into focus. He is smiling. “You’re quite the cuddler.”

It is not as if Jon has never seen Robb in the morning, just not like this— sleep has made his corners round, his voice deep. He is slow and soft and Jon wants to wrap himself in his brother’s words, the very same that are making him blush a sunrise pink. He wants to bury his face in his brother’s chest and breath him in for a while, a long while, but he moves away instead, feels his body protesting with every inch he shifts.

“Did you sleep well?” asks Robb as he disentangles his legs from Jon’s own, and just as Jon takes a breath to answer he sees Robb’s face change to something dark and sad.

“Yes,” he says, and waits for Robb to say whatever it is that is bothering him.

Robb breathes in; he exhales.

“Before the others see you, I have to talk to you,” Robb tells him, and Jon smells smoke wafting through the camp; others are awakening.

Robb’s shoulder brushes against Jon’s and stays there, as if the other man is trying to comfort him already.

“It’s Father,” he says, and Jon knows deep in his soul already, like a knife to the heart, and he closes his eyes.

He is numb.

“They killed him.”

 

#

 

After the tears subside, and after that the curses, Jon sits up straight in bed and looks at Robb. His hands are steady but his eyes are not, flashing between hot and cold, and he says, “Tell me what to do in this war.”

Robb gazes at his little brother, once so weak, and knows. “Stay with me. Fight when I fight, go where I go. I can’t be any sort of King without you by my side.”

(He doesn’t add: or any sort of man.)

“I want to kill them,” says Jon.

“We will.”

 

#

 

The first person they see outside of the tent is Theon, scooping porridge into his bowl.

“Jon!” he says, unsurprised. “Run away from the Wall already?”

“Shut up, Greyjoy,” says Robb, not even looking at the other man as he tugs Jon along behind him. Jon knows they’re friends, he’s seen them talking, but when he’s around Robb never even notices Theon, too intent on protecting Jon. Maybe it’s the only way he knows how; he can’t protect Jon from the Wall, or war, or Catelyn. Maybe Theon is the only thing Robb can truly shield his brother from.

Jon shakes his head to dislodge those thoughts from his brain; he needs to focus on the war.

Robb lets go of his wrist as soon as they are past Theon, and Jon feels something shift, feels the air weigh heavier on his shoulders. They have become too close over the past few hours, and it has disrupted their balance, their careful distance.

“Where are we going?” he whispers to Robb, who beckons him into another tent. They push their way through the musty flaps and Jon blinks, trying to adjust to the darkness within.

“There you are, Robb,” Catelyn greets him, smiling. “You must have slept in.”

She hasn’t noticed Jon yet, or maybe she has and she’s just ignoring him; Jon isn’t sure. Then she stares straight at him, her expression unreadable.

“Jon Snow,” she says; she draws out his last name, makes sure that everybody in the tent knows he’s a bastard. “It’s good to see you again.”

Her words don’t correlate with the coldness in her face, and Jon turns, searching for some comfort in Robb’s eyes, but his brother is looking away. Anything between them has evaporated.

 

#

 

It is mid-morning and Robb’s breakfast is still warm in his belly; the sun is climbing in the sky. He should be focused on what Lord Ivan is saying to him, on how to rally more troops, but he can’t. His eyes are dancing around the room, focusing first on Jon and then on whether or not the others are looking at Jon, what they are thinking about him and his sparse but wise comments. Mostly, he is distracted by Jon’s lips; they always were his weakness, his downfall, even when he didn’t realize it.

It is the third time that he has to ask Lord Ivan to repeat himself when he snaps. Well, he doesn’t snap completely, because Robb is not the kind of person to ever really snap (he is ice, unyielding); but he stands up, pushing back his chair, and everybody quiets down.

“I need some air,” he says, trying hard to put on the voice of a king; he fails miserably. If he can’t even focus for an hour, what kind of king is he anyway?

Everybody nods, visibly relieved (whether it’s because they get a break or because Robb is leaving, he’s not sure).

“Come on, Jon.”

Jon’s brow furrows and he looks at Robb with confusion, but slowly stands up and follows him.

“Are you okay, Robb?” he asks, as soon as they are out of earshot of the others, and Robb nods, grabbing him by his wrist and pulling him towards the forest. He won’t let go this time, he won’t let his own stupid issues get between them— the purest relationship he’s ever had, and he’s managed to fuck it up his entire life.

“Robb,” Jon pants, stumbling along behind his brother. “What’s going on?”

And Robb turns, shoves Jon against a tree with all the feeling he has been keeping locked up all these years, all the frustration.

He stops before he does anything stupid, though, steps back and lets his fingers unclench from Jon's skin. Robb has always known that Jon feels too deeply, feels everything _more_. But he never lets it out, and for once Robb wishes he would, would tell him what he's doing wrong so he can change, can make everything better like he's always tried to.

“I’m going to go back now,” he says, calm. He is ice again, untouchable. “But I don't want you there.”

 

#

 

As he slides down the tree to sit in the damp grass below him, Jon feels more lost than he has ever been. He just doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand why Robb dragged him out of the tent just to leave him. He doesn’t know why he came here anymore; things were good at the Wall, weren’t they? Good enough for a bastard.

Maybe it is all the more confusing their careful distance has never been shattered like this before, and Jon doesn’t know how he is supposed to feel; because all he feels right now is pity, pity for the broken boy that he loves.

And he thinks, too, about his father. He will never know his mother now, not even her name. He picks angrily at the bark where it looks like somebody has hacked at the tree with a sword, and peels layer upon layer off.

It is an hour, maybe more, before Robb comes back. He looks— _different_ , Jon thinks. His cheeks are red and his eyes shine with apologies like Jon has never seen before. There are too many feelings in this picture, too many colours on one palette.

“Jon,” he says. One word, but at least the word is not ‘Snow’. “I’m sorry. I want to be your brother again.” And his eyes, impossibly blue, are clear for the first time in a long time.

And Jon thinks, _why_? But when Robb extends a hand to help him up, there is no hesitation before he takes it. There never was, with Robb.

 

#

 

Years of resentment, years of space, years of want cannot be healed in a single moment, no matter how poignant.

Robb watches Jon eat supper and wants to runs his hands through Jon’s curls, but cannot. His mother is watching him, he knows, and for the first time he hates her for it, for following his gaze to Jon. He feels like she knows, when even Jon does not, and it scares him.

(He has never been anything less than perfect.)

Jon looks up, meets his eyes, and Robb smiles tentatively. He isn’t quite sure how to do this, this closeness thing, but he hopes that his body will remember the feeling, like instinct. It should be instinct, shouldn’t it? To be best friends with your brother. It should not be instinct to want more, to want to run his hands through Jon’s curls and tangle his fingers in them and tilt Jon’s face up and kiss him, yet it is.

Robb turns back to his supper and tries in vain to focus, but there is something thrumming through his veins that keeps drawing his eyes back to Jon. And Jon, Jon will hate him for it, he thinks, will spurn him. He doesn’t want to lose what’s already between them just because he is greedy. It has only been one day, after all, one day to come to terms with his feelings.

(In truth, it has been a lifetime.)

 

#

 

Jon doesn’t quite know if he’s allowed to leave the supper table, if he will be chastised like a child, so the instant Robb stands up he pushes back his chair as well, eager to be out of the hostile dining hall.

Robb smiles at him, again, wider this time, and Jon lets himself dream of being his lover, if only for a moment. But the moment seems to extend, and Jon is following Robb out of the tent, and Robb is showing Jon his sleeping tent (next to Robb’s), and Jon is staring at him with obvious want, and Robb is smiling.

“Robb,” Jon says, and Robb stops explaining how to tie up the back flaps and turns to look at him, the Northern wind buffeting his hair and whipping around his body.

(Jon never could control his feelings.)

When Jon kisses him, it is like a new universe being born, and it is only milliseconds before Robb is kissing him back, cupping Jon’s jaw with his rough palm. Jon wants to live and die like this, to burn with Robb’s lips on his.

(His brain catches up with his body about twenty seconds in.)

Jon pushes Robb away even as his muscles scream at him not to, and Robb looks as confused as he feels.

“Are you kissing me back?” Jon asks, although it is obvious. He has always been pessimistic, has never been a dreamer, so why are his dreams coming true? It goes against what he has been telling himself his whole life, that he will never get what he wants.

“Yes,” says Robb, and then, with wonderment, “You kissed me.”

“I love you.”

And Robb is smiling, smiling like his heart has just been lit on fire, and he presses his forehead to Jon’s. “Me too, always, _Jon!_ ”

Jon thinks he might be crying, but that’s okay because Robb is too, and Jon kisses the salt from Robb’s chapped lips, licking inside his mouth.

“Shouldn’t we talk about this?” murmurs Robb against Jon’s lips, and Jon just shakes his head.

“There’s time enough tomorrow,” he whispers, then looks straight at Robb and grins. “I won’t be needing this tent, will I?”

Robb shakes his head.

 

#

 

Robb wakes up tangled around Jon, and this time he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even open his eyes, just breathes in his brother’s scent from where his head is resting on Jon’s chest. The warmth of another body intertwined with his is like nothing he has ever known. He shifts to curl in closer, always closer, and Jon’s heartbeat starts pounding in his ears, through his body like they are one.

A gentle kiss on his forehead finally forces his eyes open to stare into Jon’s, and Jon leans down to press a kiss to Robb’s lips as well.

“Are we doing this then?” Jon asks, like he’s afraid Robb will say no, and Robb just brings his head down for another kiss, deeper this time.

“Come on, Jon,” he says, even though he never wants to leave this bed, not for the rest of his life. “We can’t be late again.”

(They are late anyway, because Jon won’t stop _touching_ him and it’s driving him crazy.)

It’s obvious that they can’t tell anyone, that they have to hide it from the world, but Robb doesn’t care. It doesn’t cheapen their relationship any when Robb stops himself from taking Jon’s hand as they walk through camp, it just makes it harder.

Jon, on the other hand, is almost shaking, his eyes darting around with paranoia.

“Stop assuming everybody knows,” Robb hisses to him, and Jon nods, clenching his hands into fists. They stop outside the meeting tent, the tent both of them hate so much, and Robb lets his finger trace over the contours of Jon’s hand, cools the boiling that he knows is just under the surface, watches as Jon visibly relaxes.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Jon whispers, mostly to reassure himself, and strangely it’s true— no matter how the war ends, no matter what happens, they have each other.

 

#

 

It is okay, mostly; Jon doesn't speak up much, just memorizes the maps that are placed in front of him and tries not to make it too obvious that he is always looking at Robb, always watching.

The morning's monotony is broken when a boy comes rushing in, interrupting exactly like he’s not supposed to, but his eyes are wide and terrified.

“There’s an army riding on us, sir,” he says, gazing at Robb with something like hero-worship. “It’s unknown whose troops they are, sir.”

“Thank you,” says Robb, and it’s his kingly voice, the fake one he uses to hide how scared he is. He turns to Theon. “Ready our men, Greyjoy. Everybody else, you know what to do.”

Well, not Jon, Jon definitely does _not_ know what to do, but Robb grabs his elbow as he passes and pulls Jon up behind him, tugging him out of the tent.

“You said you wanted to fight,” his brother whispers urgently. “Are you sure?”

Jon can tell Robb wants him to say no, to back out, but he won’t.

“I’ll be fighting beside you, sir,” he tells him, like it’s the most mundane thing in the world. (In truth, his heart is beating so loudly he wonders why the rest of the camp can’t hear it.)

“Come with me then.”

This is why Robb is a good King, this right here: he is still cool under pressure, still unbendable even when people are trying to break him.

Jon comes with him.

 

#

 

Their horses are ready and waiting for them; Robb checks the tack on both of them, makes sure it’s tight but not too tight.

“Robb,” says Jon, and when Robb looks at him he can see how miserably Jon is hiding his fear. “How do people fight in wars, exactly?”

Robb shrugs (he has no fucking clue). “Just swing your sword a lot.”

His brother doesn’t look comforted, so Robb runs his hand through Jon’s curls fondly, tangles his fingers in them even as Jon tries (not very hard) to shake him off.

“You’ll be fine out there,” he whispers, and he tilts Jon’s face up and kisses him, the sweet slide of lips on lips. The horses block them from view, thank the Gods, and Jon’s hands come up to rest on his hips, pulling him closer. They will learn together, like they have done everything else together, and the past doesn’t really matter, does it? They’re okay now; Robb’s heart, at least, is open and naked for the first time, and if that is his downfall it’s okay, because it is his uprising too.

 

#

 

After the battle is over, they ride back to camp together with a sense of relief. Not because they won, although they did, but because the other is safe (saved). Their heads, one red and one black, are bent together, discussing some secret thing, and maybe they were always meant to be together after all.

“Happy birthday,” Robb whispers (he'd almost forgotten), and Jon almost laughs at how silly it sounds, with blood and dirt streaked across his brother’s face, but it's somehow perfect too.

“Happy birthday.”


End file.
